Ghosts of The Past
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Set post X-Men 3. The residents of Xavier's Insitute are trying to rebuild after Phoenix. Late one night, a SHIELD agent visits the mansion, claiming to know Helena Draven. The 'proof' he provides sets Wolverine & Raven on an unwelcome foray into the past


"There's somebody at the door," Helena reports, without looking up from the sheaf of papers in her left hand.

She's sat in the Professor's study, her feet in Logan's lap, reviewing midterm progress reports. He's working on lesson plans for his car maintenance workshop, a sweating Canadian Gold bottle at his elbow. Technically, it's Storm's study now, but nobody says it out loud. The school stationary has changed, as has the name plate on the door, but it's still referred to as Xavier's. No sooner has the last syllable left her lips, when the shrill of the mansion's doorbell echoes through the marbled foyer. Except the study is too far away to hear it, unless you have feral-acute ears.

"No fair, sneaky telepath," Logan sniffs, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Hairy bugger," she sniffs back, also smiling.

"It's a bit late fer social calls, darlin'," he frowns, nodding to the cherrywood clock on the mantel.

It's just past one a.m. Neither sleeps very well, fractured memories chasing nightmares old and new. The small hours are a good time to catch up on school paperwork, and just sometimes, the repetitive activity makes them sleepy. There are papers strewn on the desk, in ordered piles that track across the floor to the horsehair-stuffed sofa. Helena reaches for her own beer, the bottle levitating into her waiting hand.

"If Piotr's ordered pizza again, nab me a slice," she instructs, slipping her feet from his lap to tuck them beneath her. "Oh, unless it's got-"

"I know, anchovies. 'Yuck'," Logan finishes, realising he's been nominated to answer the door.

Rising from the sofa, he rolls his shoulders, huffing a breath through his nose. As the door clicks to behind him, Helena smiles to herself. He won't admit it, but he loves crafting lesson plans, working on them until they're perfect. As with all things, he doesn't like interruptions. Tapping her teeth with the pen cap, she rings low grades in biro red. Most are telepaths, their nascent powers interfering with their concentration. Rampaging hormones plus the usual teenage social minefield, equals distracted kids who haven't learnt to properly shield their minds.

She makes a note to schedule more training sessions for the telepaths. Since Jean and Charles died, it's fallen to her to help them order their thoughts, to teach them to stop the voices in their heads from drowning them and define psychic ethics. What fifteen or sixteen year old wouldn't be tempted to read their roommate's thoughts as easily as a homework assignment? And if that roommate happened to have a secret crush, resist the urge to blab to all their friends? Thankfully, Charles had meticulously documented _everything_ when it came to dealing with chaotic mutant powers.

Dotting the pen over the third ringed name, Helena scowls and chews her lower lip. The boy had been labelled an early-onset Schizophrenic and medicated until he drooled into his morning cereal by a well-meaning but ignorant family paediatrician. Two years at Xavier's School for the Gifted had undone most of the damage, but not his tendency to rely on chemicals to blunt the periodic emotional storms inside his skull. She had smelled cannabis on him four times, warned him twice. Looks like it's time for one of _those_ conversations. Psychoactive drugs and telepathy aren't a good mix.

Sighing, she pinches the bridge of her nose, wonders, as she occasionally does, when exactly she signed up for this. Sometimes, she thinks a good slap would be just as beneficial as a counselling session. Discipline has slipped since they lost half the staff (the family?) to the Phoenix's fury. The kids and the adults, nursing their psychological trauma, their grief, have acted out. She includes herself in that, four long hours spent repairing Cerebro's headset after a temper outburst testament to the depth of feeling. The school is just so _empty _without Charles, Scott and Jean. The Danger Room has seen a lot of use, although Storm gets annoyed when the safety protocols are deactivated. Sometimes, only physical pain can blot out the emotional. A healing factor makes that possible without permanent damage. Washing down the painful knot in her throat with a gulp of beer, Helena shakes her head, fiercely, mutters a self-depreciating curse under her breath.

Sharp ears picking up the familiar tempo of Logan's feet down the hall, she sits up straight, hearing a second set. As the door opens, she smells gun oil and expensive cologne, sees the suspicion written in Logan's scowl, the way his shoulders are hunched up around his ears. A tall, heavily-built man with chestnut hair and an impressive walrus moustache fills the doorframe. Even without the buzzcut, his bearing screams military. On her feet, telepathic mind automatically pinpointing the location of all the mansion's residents, just in case, she folds her arms defensively, shooting a silent enquiry.

"This is Timothy Dugan," Wolverine growls flatly. "Says he works for S.H.I.E.L.D. Says he's got somethin' he needs ta talk ta yer about."

Raven eyes him guardedly, notes the discreet gun bulges at his shoulder and ankle. Even in civvies, he looks like he should be on parade with polished boots and a chestful of medals. Dugan offers a meaty hand in greeting, which she ignores.

"We don't allow weapons, Mr. Dugan. This is a school," she informs him curtly, English politeness full of consequences if he fails to comply.

Dugan grins, teeth white beneath his moustache, and crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. He's older than she first thought, maybe fifties.

"With respect, ma'am, I think I'm standing in a room with two walking weapons."

Cracking his knuckles with a sound like ratchet teeth, Wolverine's head tips to one side, eyes narrowing.

"Last time we had uninvited soldiers in here, bub, it didn't go so well," he rumbles. "Fer anyone involved."

Moving to Raven's side, they both bristle like chained mastiffs at the S.H.I.E.L.D operative. He can see bright points of metal glinting between their knuckles. He can also see red polish on Helena Draven's toenails and notes how small her bare feet seem next to Wolverine's scuffed boots. Inexplicably, it amuses him, but Dugan knows better than to laugh at these people. These dangerous, highly-trained, augmented-mutant people.

"The late General Stryker wasn't affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D," he says coolly, an officious note creeping into his tone. "The President has disbanded the Weapon X project and those involved have been charged with crimes against humanity."

Raven is distinctly unimpressed and isn't worried that it shows. "What d'you want, Dum Dum? Why haven't you got some snotty kid barely outta boot camp playing gopher?"

Timothy Dugan is tired. He's pulled a twelve hour shift on a helicarrier and then driven an hour to reach Xavier's School for the Gifted. He'd really have rather had his assistant see to it, but a higher authority decided otherwise. Besides which, his assistant scares easier than he does. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a document roll bearing an eagle emblem in holographic gold.

"Colonel Fury has a proposition to discuss with you, ma'am. The President has recently given him jurisdiction over certain mutant-related affairs and your residency at Xavier's has come to light." Dugan pauses, then adds, dryly, "As has your apparent amnesia."

He tosses the tube into the air, where it hangs, spinning lazily in place before zipping into Raven's palm. She doesn't open it, but looks at it like it's going to explode, ignite, or emit noxious fumes at any moment. Wolverine takes two steps forward to stand protectively in front of her, hazel eyes promising a world of hurt if she's a feather out in the next ten seconds. As if she wouldn't just vault over his head to take Dugan out, if necessary. Out of the two, she's the more dangerous, although she has greater self control than Wolverine. She doesn't need to lay a finger on an enemy to incapacitate them, though if she's pissed off enough, she _likes_ to.

"You were declared M.I.A almost a decade ago," Dugan continues calmly. "We don't know what happened to you. Colonel Fury is keen to find out, and so, I would suspect, are you. He asks that you peruse the information within and call him to ask any questions you want, ma'am."

Snapping a salute, Dugan turns on his heel and briskly marches to the threshold, where he stops to look back. He smiles widely beneath his moustache, like he's heard a favourite joke.

"Call it a favour from an old friend."

Nodding respectfully to Wolverine, cocking another salute to Raven, he closes the door behind him, leaving the stink of gun oil in his wake. Both ferals listen until they hear the front door of the mansion close with a clang. Eyes distant, Helena tracks his mind until he gets into his unmarked sedan and purrs away up the immaculate gravel drive. He has externally-implanted mental shields to prevent more than surface thoughts being read. She turns the document tube over in her hands, running the pads of her fingers over the embossed seal. Suspiciously, she sniffs it, narrowing her eyes. Sitting heavily back on the sofa, midterm reports forgotten, she glances up at Logan, who looks concerned.

"Hels," he says, quietly, carefully, as if to a skittish wildcat. "Why did yer call him 'Dum Dum'? Sounds like an operative's handle. D'yer know him?"

Hugging her elbows, she shakes her head, confused. "I dunno, love," she admits, a little rattled. "So far as I know, I've never set eyes on him before. Or Nick Fury. Charles used to talk about him once in a while."

Logan sits next to her, looping a supportive arm around her shoulders, chin in her hair. She leans against him and they both stare at the innocuous-looking plastic roll. Neither would be surprised if it started to tick.

"Don't know if I can do this," she confesses, eventually. "It's bound to be bad… but what if it's _really_ awful?"

It could be, and they both know it right down to the marrow of their adamantium-coated bones. They've gleaned enough from telepathic scans, recalled nightmares and occasional scraps of security film to know they were both soldiers for a very long time. Shuddering, her memory flashes on the grainy Alkali Lake footage showing her on a raid, dressed in black fatigues, face smeared with camouflage paint. Claws out, although they were just bone back then, she ran amok, killing and maiming with savage, chilling purpose.

"Yer want me ta...?" Logan offers, half-reaching for the tube.

He wants to protect her, futile as he knows it is. Feet bare, curly hair untidily gathered at the nape of her neck, she looks scared and delicate, almost as if she would break in his hands like one of the Professor's bone china teacups. Suddenly, he's angry at Timothy Dugan, at S.H.I.E.L.D and Nicholas Joseph Fury. A hot, bitter rage that burns in his belly like acid. They've both been through more than enough, more than anyone should have to endure in any number of lifetimes. They want, but are afraid of, the truth. They fear that maybe they're _worse_ than anyone they remember fighting against. She shakes her head firmly, after the briefest pause, and takes a preparatory breath. Thumbing off the cap, slicing the seal with her nail, she pulls out a thick sheaf of paper and smoothes it across her lap. Nose wrinkling, lips moving soundlessly, she begins to read. Three pages, then six, then eight. The colour fades from her cheeks and she says nothing, the pulse leaping in her neck. The doorbell shrieks again, and this time it's pizza, but Piotr needn't worry about anyone filching a slice.

Everything is vibrating, including the floorboards, but it's not an earthquake. The sofa is bucking like a rodeo bull, Logan the cowboy bouncing atop. Books are fluttering on the shelves, a maelstrom of papers white out the windows. The Professor's mahogany desk slides across the floor with a groan, brass casters dragging against worn carpet. Peeling a sheet of paper from his face, Logan grabs Helena's shoulders. She's grey and shaking, eyes enormous, opaque, teeth cutting into her lower lip.

"What is it?" he yells, alarmed. "Darlin', please, yer gonna pull down the damn ceilin'!"

As if to emphasis the point, a chunk of plaster falls, bouncing from his kneecap with a metallic ping. Everything stops. Papers fall like broken dove wings across the carpet, the desk swinging to a gentle halt near the door. The study looks like a shaken snow globe, but nothing irreplaceable is broken. Breathing hard, shakily, she stares up at him and tries to collect herself. Her eyes screw shut as she struggles, feral impulse at war with psionic control. Logan takes her hands in his, bones creaking as she grips them tight.

"Hels?"

Picking up her beer, which miraculously, has survived the telekinetic control lapse, she drinks it down in two gulps. He looks into her face, touches her jaw with his fingertips, and waits. Taking a deep breath, she licks her dry lips.

"Draven, Helena Louisa. Major. Feral mutant with alpha class psionic capabilities," she reads, voice husky and strained. "Born Liverpool, UK, sixth of January nineteen twenty five. Recruited into the British Military aged fifteen. Sent to France, Germany and Poland during World War Two. Decorated in ten different combat zones. Speaks eight languages. Expert in hand-to-hand, covert tactical operations, espionage and solo hostile neutralisation. Attached to S.T.R.I.K.E since nineteen sixty five. Volunteered for the joint S.T.R.I.K.E-S.H.I.E.L.D special mutant task force in nineteen eighty two. M.I.A since two thousand."

She hands the sheaf of documents to Logan and laughs, the sound strangled and self-mocking. "I'm a bloody octogenarian assassin. Don't know why I'm surprised."

Logan opens his mouth, discovers the right words aren't forthcoming, and drops his gaze to the papers. There's a lot of dates and events recorded, a tangle of military-ese and mission reports, but the detail is decidedly lacking. He notes a salient fact; her military service number doesn't match the one on her dog tags. The I.D proclaiming her code name 'Raven', whose initial six digits match those on his own tags. A photograph falls from between the pages, old, edges curled and yellow. He picks it up and turns the colour of the paper. Wordlessly, he holds it out to her and they both stare.

Drinks in hand, empty bottles and glasses littering the table top, a group of soldiers beer-gurn at the camera. They're all wearing green vests and fatigues. A twinkle-eyed black man in a cream Stetson hat is giving a peace sign, his other arm slung around a jug-eared young man who appears even drunker than his companion. Massive, unnaturally muscular and clearly a mutant, a blond man has cake frosting down his vest. He is grinning happily and has a yard of ale in his huge hand. There is a partially-eaten chocolate cake on the table in front of him. Twin katana hilts at his shoulders, a rakishly handsome man appears to be goading a grim-faced Korean in a white shirt. At the centre of the picture, looking away from the camera, laughing as she raises her glass, is Helena. There's a glittery pink cocktail umbrella tucked into her hair behind her ear. She is sat next to Logan. And Victor Creed. Sabretooth has his clawed hand companionably on Logan's shoulder, but his jet eyes are on her. They all look relaxed and as drunk as it is possible for ferals to get. A healing factor doesn't usually allow complete inebriation, which is both a blessing and an extreme annoyance.

She flips over the photograph. Somebody has scrawled in pencil across the back 'Ma Egerton's Bar, Alberta, 4th May 1973. Fred's birthday. Cake eating mutant bastards!'

"Shit," she whispers, utterly shocked. "Oh, Christ on a bike. We _did_ all know each other..."

Scrabbling through the pages, she finds the one she wants, eyes tracking back and forth rapidly. Stabbing her index finger at the paper, she stares at Logan, whose expression matches hers for shock and disbelief.

"February seventy two to September seventy three. Covert operations, Weapon X project... tactical data gathering..., aborted after cover compromised and failure to eliminate primary target..."

Suddenly, she goes extremely still, conscious mind racing to knit all the threads. Logan gathers the strands before she does and clears his throat, noisily.

"Back at Alkali Lake, when we left Stryker ta the flood water an' he was rantin' all that shit," he says, slowly, thinking. "He said yer'd better make sure yer did it right this time... Think yer were sent ta rub out the General, darlin'."

She lifts her head, eyes abruptly clear and cold as the dam water that drowned William Stryker and Jean Grey. Only Jean didn't stay dead. "Bloody well wish I _had_ done a proper job. Then maybe all the shit since wouldn't have happened."

Shaking his head, decisively, he reaches for her, but she flinches away. Frowning, he hauls her into his arms anyway, where she's stiff and unyielding as a mannequin. They both have a tendency to blame themselves for the horrors that occur around them.

"Don't be thinkin' like that," he growls fiercely, fingers at the nape of her neck. "We've only gotten half a tale here. Last I checked, English, yer weren't omnipotent. So the Big Hairy Fucker shows up with us in some old photo. Don't mean nuthin' until we get the full story. I wanna get Hank ta check this shit out. He's got sources in Congress. He can also tell us if that's real. Too easy ta fake pictures these days. Hell, any of the kids can do it usin' a computer."

Realising he's right, she sags against him, all resistance ebbing away. She locks her hands at the small of his back, holding on like he's going to disappear like so much mist. They're both upset, stress pheromones hanging thick on the air. He can feel her trembling, ever so slightly, like a reed in the wind. Her face is buried in his shoulder and when she speaks, her voice is muffled.

"You know I love you? No matter what's happened that we can't remember?"

Logan raises her head, cups her chin and kisses her, very gently. "Yeah, darlin', I know. I love yer too, an' nuthin', an' I mean _nuthin'_ will ever change that. Whoever we were back then, we ain't the same people now. An' that's what we hold onta."

She nods and attempts a smile. Seeing his hands are shaking too, she kisses his palm and nestles her cheek into it. Stroking her face, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb, he kisses her forehead.

"C'mere," he murmurs against her brow, pulling her close.

They hold each other for a while, not speaking, emotions neither can put into words passing between them through their telepathic bond. Sometimes, the bond causes problems, like when she sensed him admiring Emma Frost's cleavage. Helena dislikes the White Queen, thinks she's a manipulative tart with too many cosmetic surgeries. When she caught Emma draping herself over the bonnet of the Humvee Logan was repairing, she stalked into the garage like a lioness, hauled her off by the seat of her designer jeans and had a quiet word. Nobody's quite sure what she said to Emma, but she's never tried to flirt with Logan again. Sometimes, though, the bond saves lives, like the time Sabretooth almost killed her in Salem Park. He had known, immediately, and came roaring in with the other X-Men at his heels.

The study door clicks open and bangs against the desk. Remy's bewildered face pokes around the jamb, blinking in the light. He side-shuffles into the room, a third-empty bottle of Jim Beam dangling from his hand and an unlit cigarette stuck to his lower lip. By his untucked purple dress shirt and rumpled hair, it's been a good night on the tiles. Sometimes, Remy drinks like he has a healing factor. Seems anyone who's ever had any involvement with Weapon X does. He stares at the mess and rubs his nose on the back of his hand.

"Guessin' ya'll didn't have a fight," he declares, Cajun accent noticeably thickened by alcohol. "Not enough t'ings broke. Or on fire, come ta think o'it... Can always tell where de X-Men have bin. Somethin' _ always_ broke, blown ta hell or gone up in flames."

He looks at the two ferals, attention caught by the overhead light winking from the S.H.I.E.L.D emblem on the documents in their laps. His head tips and he blows out his cheeks, eyes swirling demon red. Swinging his legs over the desk, he takes a slug from the bottle and carelessly throws it to Logan, who drinks and passes it to Helena. Taking a well-used deck of cards from his breast pocket, Remy begins to shuffle, the edges tinged glowing pink.

"Whatever's 'bout ta go down, needs ta be handled real careful," he predicts, lighting his cigarette with a tap of his index finger. "Gambit ain't seen _chere _go fluey with the TK before. Bad shit, neh?"

Helena tongues the whisky from her teeth and nods, once, sending the bottle bobbing through the air back to Remy.

"Yeah," she blows the word out reluctantly. "Think we need to speak to Henry. Either way, at some point, we gotta deal with Nick bloody Fury. Can't say I'm overly thrilled with that idea. Least if 'Congressman McCoy' knows our whereabouts, the Colonel can't just vanish us."

Remy makes the peculiarly French sound used to express everything and nothing. "Ya don't sound too sure o'that, chere."

She looks at Logan and something unspoken passes between them. "Right now, hon, I'm not sure of_ anything_."

It's very late, or maybe it's really early. Either way, Logan can't sleep. By some miracle, or possibly sheer exhaustion, Helena is dead to the world, curled up on her side. Propped up on his elbow, he studies her sleeping face, touches a fingertip to the frown still etched between her eyebrows and flips an untidy curl off her cheek. She murmurs softly and twitches her nose, eyes sliding beneath the lids as she dreams. Three days have crawled by since Hank took the documents, after scanning them into Cerebro's databanks for safekeeping. Blue eyes narrowing behind his spectacles, he had huffed, stroked his furry chin and promised such answers as were within his power. As a precaution, the already tight security at Xavier's has increased. Tonight it's Colossus's turn to perimeter sweep, checking the scanners, the cameras, the motion and heat detectors. Skinned up, Piotr is virtually indestructible, an extremely visible deterrent. You can't miss a seven foot tall Russian with gleaming metallic skin.

Storm isn't happy, the inclement skies testament to her mistrust of all things military. The mantle of headmistress doesn't sit easily on her shoulders, although she has a natural flair for teaching. She worries, as they all do, that S.H.I.E.L.D is up to no good. They've all lost too much to take anything for granted. Logan looks up sharply as tepid light floods the bedroom, then relaxes as he realises it's just the full moon, hanging fat and waxy over the manicured gardens. It reflects from the purple polish on Helena's fingernails, complete with little flowers on the ring finger. A group of the older girls are taking an optional health and beauty course. Nobody is safe from the painting, exfoliating, waxing and aromatherapy. All the women have smoothly waxed legs and outrageously painted nails. Whether they like it or not.

Remy seems quite happy to allow them to buff, massage and primp at him. But then, Remy is always at his happiest surrounded by attentive women. He wouldn't admit he was frightened, exactly, but Logan beat a hasty retreat when Jubilee and Kitty approached him with wax strips, eying his chest speculatively. Helena had laughed so hard she nearly choked on her cup of tea. To her dismay, she was ambushed moments later so Paige Guthrie could practise her eyebrow waxing technique. Paige reasoned a healing factor cancelled out any painful mistakes caused by too hot or inadequately softened wax, thus making Ms. Draven an ideal guinea pig. Wolverine was not above a smug grin at her expense, giving a mocking little wave as he disappeared to play hockey with the older boys.

Smiling to himself in the darkness, amused by the stupid, lopsided flowers, painted with love and inexpert care, he tries to ignore the worry gnawing at his guts. He ponders, as he is wont to do on occasion, that it's about time he got around to buying a diamond for her left hand. Something antique, something _special_. Something older than the pair of them combined. There's a fat bundle of scruffy bills stashed in his sock drawer for just that purpose. It's a marvel in and of itself that he has a permanent drawer. Once upon a time, this was running money, just in case. Cash for vehicle hire, for motel rooms, bribes and weapons. Gradually, notes got peeled off for birthdays, for Christmas gifts, for rare, precious holidays. Now, he thinks of emerald cut stones and platinum shanks, ignoring the tiny inner whisper that asks what the hell he'll do if she says no. She just might. Every time he's canuckle-head enough to think he's got her figured out, she does or says something that slaps the notion right out of his skull.

"You're thinking too loudly again, Wolvie." Helena's voice is thick as syrup with sleep, punctuated by a loud yawn.

He mutters an apology as she yawns again, a pillow crease across her cheek. As a telepath, she can literally hear the cogs turning in his head. Wiggling a kink from her neck, she uncurls, rolls over and fits herself snugly against him, feeling his heart beat against her spine. He drapes an arm over her, runs his fingers down her forearms, tracing the intricate musculature that guides her claws. Pressing his lips to her neck just below her ear, he tightens his arms around her as she sighs comfortably.

Moments tick by and her lips curve in the dark, exposing even, white teeth. He inhales, pauses and chuckles quietly, intimately, detecting the telltale change in her scent. Growling playfully, he purrs a suggestion and she laughs with feigned outrage, tipping back her head to nip at his ear as he slides his hands beneath her cotton vest. Her fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses her, tasting spearmint toothpaste, cool on her breath. He sighs an endearment through the kiss. She can already feel evidence of his arousal against her lower back, smell it like woodsmoke in his scent. His left hand quests downwards, dipping into her pyjamas. Breath catching, she murmurs encouragement as his fingers describe exactly the right rhythm against her clit. He knows what pleases her, how to get her gasping his name, and continues until his fingers are slick and a sweat sheen glitters at her brow. He whispers in her ear throughout, secret lovers tongue, coaxing every sigh, every moan. Twisting over in his embrace, she kisses him, fiercely, and wriggles out of her pyjamas in a single, sinuous movement. He always sleeps naked. Rolling her hips, teasing him, stroking him between her thighs, she laughs and pins him down, hard. He allows it, a willing participant in the game, framing her slender waist in his large hands. They're both breathing hard, almost five years together and it's still fresh, still exciting. Poised above him, pelvis tilted upwards, her gaze locks with his.

"Love you, crazy English," he breathes roughly.

"Love you too, daft ol' Canuck," she responds.

Then she drops her hips, takes him inside her, and begins a languorous, sensuous movement. He groans with pleasure, chin tipping back, eyes screwing closed. She leans back, one hand planted at his breast bone, finding the angle that pleases her most. Cupping his chin with her free hand, rubbing a thumb over his lower lip, she softly tells him to open his eyes. Complying without hesitation, his hazel meet her green and something merges behind them. Reality does a barrel roll, their bond surging to the fore, overwhelming sensation and emotion flooding synapses, nerve clusters, the pleasure centres of their brains. Each touch communicates a thousand little deaths, a million unspoken words. Time seems to slow to an achingly potent millennium. It doesn't always happen like this, but when it does, it's so _good_, so far beyond normal lovemaking that when the climax finally comes, they almost lose themselves in each other.

Afterwards, he lies with his head pillowed between her breasts as she strokes his unruly hair, fingertips massaging his scalp in small, lazy circles. He feels himself drifting, lulled by the warmth of her flesh, the slow, regular thump of her heart beneath his ear. Before they became involved, he had never stayed around, never slept in a lover's arms. At least, not that he can recall. Silently, he repeats his vow to himself; the ghosts of the past, whatever they are, won't ever come between them. Even if he has to slash and kill them all for a second or third time.

"Tomorrow," she murmurs sleepily, kissing the crown of his head. "We'll get news tomorrow."


End file.
